by A Van Wyck
“No apology necessary, master sergeant,” he returned, taking in the man’s gilded epaulets. “I was quite distracted myself.”
He smiled disarmingly. Now that he’d been jolted out of his preoccupation, the man’s emotional state started to register with him. He seemed stolid. A good description, halfway between solid and placid. But there was something else as well.
“If you don’t mind me saying, master-sergeant, those are some fairly red clouds you’ve got your head in.”
The man’s eyes were heavily lidded, making them difficult to see. He cut them to the side, indicating the passage behind him without turning his battle braided head. “Always is when I’m coming back from my quarrel- excuse me, quarterly, meeting with Reader Sule.”
Sule. Ah, yes. The man was an incurable bureaucrat.
The masha’na’s already thin eyes narrowed on him.
“You’d be Keeper Justin then,” the man guessed, extending a hand in greeting.
“So they tell me,” he replied, entrusting his extremely breakable hand to the man’s bear-like grip.
“You hear stories…” he man mused, referring no doubt to Justin’s empathic ability – which was widely acclaimed as being something of an aberration, even among empaths. The statement about the red clouds had obviously given him away. “But forgive me,” the man continued, remembering his manners, “I’m–”
“Master sergeant Felas Groon,” Justin finished for him, smiling. “We hear stories too,” he added in explanation.
Though he’d never met the man, he doubted there was another master sergeant, twice life size and of Inith descent among the ranks of the masha’na. He was a hero of two wars, though that had been some time ago. If the stories told it true, he’d once broken a Renali cavalry charge by himself, knocking the lead horse to the ground with his fist and routing the kingdom troops. They’d fled the reach of the monstrous holy warrior who’d plucked them from their saddles and crushed them underfoot.
The tribal axe at Groon’s waist, in place of the traditional orin companion sword, would have identified him even if the ritual war braids had not.
Yes, this patently savage crusader would definitely not sit well with the prudish and painfully cultured Reader Sule. The man was much too obsessed with his pure Imperial bloodline and Imperially rooted family tree. A state of mind unbecoming of a priest, Justin always felt, but he couldn’t change an entire Empire’s views by himself.
And he happened to know Reader Sule went to great lengths, with a curling iron, to put that distinct Imperial kink in his otherwise straight black hair.
“Does he frequently cause you grief?”
He could feel Groon’s lips pull down in disgusted exasperation but the sentiment made it nowhere near the wide, whiskered mouth.
“It’s the recruitment issue every time,” the giant growled. “He insists we meet our quota and I keep telling him people aren’t beans to be counted.” Groon shook his shaggy head. “Almost all the noble students return home without taking the Oaths. Farmers tend to need their able sons and daughters close to home and the city kids are next to useless, most of them no better than beggars and runaways. Not prime material for the pride of the Empire. And the few that might suit choose the army over the masha’na, favoring payment over poverty...”
Groon trailed off.
“Are you all right, Keeper?”
The clangor of an idea taking shape threatened to drown the giant out.
“Have you eaten?” he demanded of the masha’na.
The man blinked at this surprising change of direction.
“I was on my way now,” Groon replied passively, probably wondering if Justin’s talents ran to sensing hunger as well as annoyance. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I think,” he breathed, “we may be able to help each other.”
His eyes were bright with possibilities.
* * *
He trudged blearily behind Keeper Justin. He didn’t know where they were going and couldn’t summon enough energy to care. The priest had been uncharacteristically brusque when shaking him awake this morning. He hadn’t been able to scrounge the curiosity to ask why it was the keeper who came to rouse him. The three boys he shared his cell with had already left by then. Most mornings they didn’t bother to wake him now, choosing to sneak out quietly. He didn’t blame them. If he’d had the choice, he wouldn’t want to spend any time around him either.
In all fairness, no one had asked him to resume his classes but every minute he spent solely in his own company was torture. He might only hear every fourth or fifth word the instructors said but at least the drudgery of classes served to dilute his own dreary thoughts to a degree. Sometimes he wished one of the instructors would call on him to give an answer or reprimand him for daydreaming, like they’d had reason to do so frequently in the past. But they didn’t. They didn’t even acknowledge when he stumbled late into the lectures midway through the morning, unwashed and uncombed. Probably they thought it a kindness.
He knew the keeper tried to draw him out of the grey world he now inhabited by setting him interesting and challenging projects. He felt bad about not being able to respond as the keeper hoped but it was simply beyond him. The sad thing was that, in a strangely detached way, he knew he would have been excited about these projects in the past. The Skordian translation he’d finished two days ago would have had him walking tall for days, before. Such excitement seemed alien and wrong now. And he knew the work he was handing in was far below his previous standards. He couldn’t bring himself to care about that either. The keeper wouldn’t remark on the inferior work except to congratulate him on a job well done. That was somehow worse. He was so tired of feeling bad. So tired.
At first he’d thought to find relief in the oblivion of sleep but the few precious bells he managed to scrounge a day weren’t worth the heart stopping trauma of the nightmares that invariably woke him. A dozen times a night, he felt that scaffolding give way beneath him and he pitched helplessly into the darkness before slamming into his bed. He felt that nameless man’s fingers on his neck, jerking at his clothes, before waking to find himself tangled and choking in his sweat drenched bedding. He watched Sunny’s slow flight, her limbs arcing with a grace she’d never possessed in life. The dull thud of impact was his heart, catapulting him upright in his bed, thumping so hard it squeezed searing tears from his eyes. But her eyes always stayed with him long after the nightmare had ended. Open and staring the accusation at him. Why had he been so stupid? Why hadn’t he just listened? Why had he been so useless? Why hadn’t he done something? Why hadn’t he saved her? He hadn’t even tried.
And then there were the nightmares he couldn’t remember. The ones where he jerked awake, blood pounding in his ears, to scrabble desperately out of reach of whatever nameless horror had followed him into wakefulness. Those were the worst.
So instead, he walked for bells on end, aimlessly roaming the Temple grounds trying to stave off sleep. His roommates weren’t sad to see him go. Too often he woke up from his nightmares screaming. You couldn’t ask people to put up with that night after night. But then, you also couldn’t walk forever.
Eventually he would sit down to ease the cramping in his legs or pick at a meal or even lean against a wall to catch his breath… And his eyelids would droop in exhaustion. He’d lost track of all the strange places he’d woken up and the people he’d frightened with his violent awakenings.
And now, finally, that same closed expression he’d come to expect on the faces of his teachers and peers had overtaken the keeper. It had been inevitable. However altruistic and patient the man might be, he was still human.
If there had been room for any more pain in his head, he would have felt the keeper’s withdrawal acutely. As it was, all he felt was a shadow of guilt at not caring.
Deep in these dark thoughts, he almost walked into the keeper’s back. He looked around, for the first time becoming aware of the muted noise all around that had grown
steadily as they walked. They were in Clatter Court, the masha’na training grounds. The clamor of wooden swords clacking together violently drifted from several of the screened practice halls, punctuated by chorused shouts from the students within.
They stood before the wooden steps to one such building. The keeper was exchanging words with two men in the orange and umber robes of the masha’na. One was a grizzled giant who’s tribal braids draped over his golden shoulder plates.
They were looking at him. He regarded them in turn.
“Scrawny,” observed the giant’s companion in clipped tones. He was a younger man and the complete opposite of the giant. Perhaps a hand’s breadth below average height, almost translucently pale and sinewy in the extreme. Apart from his moving lips, he held himself completely still, his eyes sharp and indifferent. It was difficult imagining any emotion hanging comfortably on that hard face.
At his companion’s curt observation, the older man barked a laugh, weathered features crinkling, almost hiding the eyes.
“He’ll fill out once he starts eating again,” the giant said.
Were they talking about him?
The giant, an officer of some kind, turned to the keeper.
“Well, that’s it, Keeper. He’ll train with the others under Master Crysopher here. You needn’t worry. Crysopher isn’t the talkative sort so it falls to me to tell you he’s the best we have.”
Master Crysopher, if that was the humorless man’s name, did not react in any way to the praise.
“I owe you thanks, Master Sergeant,” Justin said, clasping forearms with the giant. No mean feat, considering the size of that forearm.
“Not at all,” the grizzled man said. “Let me know how it goes,” he called over his shoulder as he walked away.
The keeper turned to Marco, placing a hand on his shoulder and speaking to him seriously.
“Marco, you are to go with Master Crysopher. He’ll be taking over your instruction. If time allows, we will see each other again.” And with no more than that, the keeper swept past him, back the way they’d come. He whirled, opening his mouth but the priest was already a dozen paces distant and he had no idea what he was going to say anyway. He stared after the man’s retreating back.
So that was it. He’d been passed off. The pain of the realization should have been devastating but it merely got lost in the overwrought background of his emotional landscape.
He turned back to regard Master Crysopher and spent a quiet few breaths being studied in turn. The man’s pale eyes completely failed to acknowledge his existence, yet weighed up his every move and twitch. There was no way to tell what the man’s final summation was. There seemed little doubt it was unflattering.
“Come,” the man barked, turning to walk away without waiting to see whether he followed.
He very briefly entertained the idea of silently slipping away. But what would be the point? He took a step after the man and then had to hurry to catch up. Master Crysopher walked in the same manner he spoke – with minimum fuss and high efficiency. With shoulders stiffly erect and hands clasped behind his back, the man spoke as if alone.
“You have been placed in my care for me to train. You will be added to my class and will move into the assigned dormitories with the other students. The keeper has arranged for your belongings to be brought over this afternoon.”
He had nothing to say to this. Even if he had, he would not have dared interrupt the man, who led them to one of the practice halls, standing proudly on its stilts. The stairs that squeaked under his feet did not so much as complain beneath the instructor’s weight. Possibly they were too scared to. He followed the man up to the wide landing, huffing slightly.
“You will do what I say when I say it. You will ask no questions unless one is asked of you. You will follow the rules of the court. You will give your all to any and every exercise I set you. You will not complain. You will not distract any of my students from their training. While here, you will exercise control and discipline. If at any time I feel you are not adhering to any one of these stipulations, that discipline will be exercised for you.”
They crossed to the paper screen doors. Crysopher turned on him, the movement just slightly too fast. He couldn’t help but cringe beneath those pale eyes.
“If you harbor any delusions of choice, quash them now. You’re here for a full term – one year. Longer, if I deem it necessary. You will learn what I have to teach. If you fail to learn, I will tutor you myself,” the man’s flat eyes didn’t change as he added, “and believe me you don’t want that much of my attention.”
A niggling of unease crawled beneath his despondency. Apparently satisfied that he understood, Master Crysopher slid open the sliding doors. The sound of wood striking wood intensified.
Practice dummies and padded posts marched down the length of one wall. The other sported a profusion of climbing rings and rope ladders peppered the ceiling on that side.
But his attention was immediately drawn to the two double rows of students in pure umber robes, facing each other in pairs. They moved in perfect time, their wooden swords rising and falling in ordered waves, merging into a single sound. Step, clack, clack, shuffle, clack, lunge, clack! And then they returned to their initial positions to start again. Step, clack… Over and over. Their barred faceguards rendered them identical and watching them move with such inhuman precision was… eerie.
He did not realize he’d stopped moving until Crysopher’s hand settled on his shoulder, propelling him forward. The touch was light and carefully controlled but it left the impression of murderous potential. As if it could simply have continued exerting pressure until it had reduced him to powdered bone.
“Class!” Crysopher barked. All movement ceased instantly at the sound of the inflectionless voice. “Sparring ring,” rang the command. “Djenja! Center!”
The man led him into the sudden frenzy of movement as students darted about to form a hollow circle, in the center of which a girl in umber stood with her wooden sword at her side.
He followed Crysopher between two faceless students and into the open space. The nearest student stepped forward to give up a wooden sword formally as if the stick were live steel.
Crysopher pressed it into his unready arms. He fumbled it, clutching it desperately to his chest to keep it from falling. His heartbeat raced as he regarded the stick he hugged. Finally he met Crysopher’s flat eyes. The man’s head jerked meaningfully in the direction of what, it suddenly became clear, was to be his opponent.
Wasn’t he going to get any instruction or training first? Or a faceguard at least?
Crysopher stepped out of the circle, arms folded, to watch from just beyond the ring of students.
Beginning to panic, he whipped his head toward the girl he shared the ring with. She overtopped him by at least a head. Her exposed hands and bare feet sported the ginger freckles of an Atrian. She’d waited patiently until his eyes found her, whereupon she raised her wooden sword and – there was no better word for it – flowed into a ready stance.
A couple of things became suddenly very clear. Firstly, though wooden, the practice swords were weighty and undeniably solid. Second, the girl across from him looked like she meant to swing hers seriously. And third, his depression was about to prove a very weak barrier against a girl with a stick.
His mouth ran dry and his throat constricted so he couldn’t breathe. His legs shook and sweat stuck his robes to his back. He hadn’t asked for this, he though angrily, and he wasn’t about to do it. They couldn’t make him. He moved to drop the stupid wooden sword.
“Begin!” Crysopher barked.
The girl shot forward, her stick singing towards his head. Stunned, he started to raise his own stick but it was already too late. It dawned on the part of his mind that concerned itself with things like hunger and fatigue, that here was a significant amount of pain approaching at high speed. Seeing he wouldn’t block it in time, that part of his mind dropped out the bottom of his stom
ach and took the rest of him with it. He toppled, falling away from the blow. It missed his face by a finger’s width and landed on his half-raised stick. Terror-weakened arms buckled, pulling down to smash the stick into his knee. Fighting for balance, he hobbled sideways.
A familiar, bitter taste drowned his mouth. Fine. They’d made their point. They were better than him. Everyone was better than him–
His smarting knee dropped from beneath him. The girl’s stick whistled past overhead. It would have rung his head like a gong if the blow had landed.
Despite himself, he gasped. Wasn’t it obvious the fight was over? Why was she still attacking?!?
He rounded with an angry shout on his lips but the sight of the stick, chopping towards his eyes, shoved the words down his throat. He jerked desperately away, his throbbing knee protesting as he rolled. Behind him he heard the blow crack off the planked floor. The thump of bare feet reverberating though the boards told him she was following. He had the good sense to roll again, managing a little more distance this time. Another echoing crack, even closer behind him than the first, demanded he abandon this tactic.
Why wasn’t she stopping?!?
He rolled upright just in time to meet the next attack, managing to catch this one on his stick, which sent a shock of numbness through his hands. The next blow drove at him relentlessly. He tried to twist away, interposing his stick between the blow and himself but he wasn’t prepared for the force behind it. His arms bent at the elbows, collapsing toward him. The stout wood scythed into his shoulder, pitching him to the side, his feet working feverishly to keep him upright.
She hammered him on that side again. He attempted to stiffen his arms but she broke past his hasty guard, connecting with his shoulder again. Pain flared dull and insistent on that entire side of his body. She repeated the maneuver a third time.
If she hit him again she’d break his arm. He leapt out of the way, trying to put enough distance between them so he could get up a proper defense. She missed but followed after him, stalking nearer.